


part of the queue

by abaddon (nothingbutfic)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-27
Updated: 2017-10-27
Packaged: 2019-01-23 23:13:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12518784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothingbutfic/pseuds/abaddon
Summary: It rains, and it pours, and the War grinds them both down.





	part of the queue

**Author's Note:**

> Written post-HBP, pre-DH, and originally posted to LJ. As such totally AU. Part of something that was supposed to be longer, but I'm not sure where it went.

It rains.  
  
It pours.  
  
The water washes over grass and pavement, flooding pathway and gravel and gutter. It patters at the windows, and batters at the doors. The wind drives it this way and that, and stormclouds gather overhead and fail to break, deepening and darkening with each hour.  
  
The parks have turned to sludge underfoot; toiling mud and leaves and rubbish runs along the sides of streets. Plastic bags, wrappers, the odd drink bottle, all discarded, all forgotten, make curious sailboats on this growing inland lake.  
  
People huddle in their houses and shut the curtains, hiding from the lightening and thunder and ever-present sound of the rain. It does not threaten to overrun their safe, cosy homes, not yet, and so they huddle and wait and turn the television up a little louder.  
  
Harry Potter sits on a park bench, perfectly dry, and fiddles with the buttons of his coat. He doesn’t have long to wait before a figure looms out of the rain, hazy line resolving into something more solid, all black cloak and folded fabric, almost swamping whoever it is.  
  
Draco Malfoy sags next to Harry on the bench, limbs almost loose and boneless as he settles down. He is just as dry, and slips the cowl of his cloak from his head to reveal pale hair, gone a little limp and dirty now, and a face covered with a white, plain mask. If Harry wanted to, he could turn and see grey eyes set in that not-face, but he doesn’t want to and doesn’t need to.  
  
Soon enough, a slender hand reaches up to pull the mask from his face, and Draco rolls and stretches his shoulders as he settles it on his thigh. Harry glances over and notices Draco’s nails have seen better days; they are now bitten, chipped and caked with dirt.  
  
He turns his gaze away. He doesn’t comment.  
  
“I really hate these things,” Draco tells him, breaking a silence. “I can barely stand to wear it.”  
  
“Your fault for not joining a cadre of fashion conscious fascists, I suppose.”  
  
“…We are not fascists,” Draco sputters, but it’s a weak protest and they both know it. “I really wish it would stop raining,” he says, after a while, and tips his head back to gaze up at the grey sky.  
  
“I heard on the news it’s the longest lasting storm on record,” Harry comments. “Do you even know why he’s doing it?”  
  
Draco blinks, and lowers his head to look at Harry, snorting just a little to show what he thinks of that idea. “The Dark Lord? Oh, yes, he confides his great and terrible plans to me all the time.” He sighs, leans back against the bench, and the rain spectacularly fails to fall on his face. “He doesn’t actually talk much to me, Potter, and I have to say I’m rather glad. Things usually end badly when he needs to talk to you.”  
  
“Hmm.”  
  
“My Mark itches, too.”  
  
“I bet that’s not in the brochure.”  
  
Draco turns to him, breathes through his mouth in a long suffering and pointed exhalation, and makes a pained expression. “Could we not? Could we just not, for once?”  
  
“Why?” asks Harry, and opens his mouth to catch the rain. Thanks to the spell he’d cast, it doesn’t go in, and he smiles a little sadly at how unnatural this all is, in a way. “What else is there for us to do?”  
  
“I don’t know. But I turned eighteen today, and I’ve killed more people than I care to remember. I'm not exactly in the mood for witty banter.”  
  
“You’re just mad I didn’t bring you a present.”  
  
“I am somewhat surprised. You spent most of sixth and seventh year obsessed with me.”  
  
“You were just a means to an end. I was after Snape.”  
  
“Hmm. So you like to say,” Draco offers, and it’s old and tired and familiar, this banter, and keeps Harry’s hatred at bay. Makes him think they’re simply boys again, and the school term is just around the corner.  
  
“And of course, I get criticized from the boy who turned stalking into an art form.”  
  
“I was young,” Draco says simply, “young and foolish.” When Harry turns to look at him, he can see the anger burning behind the calm voice, the lines around those grey eyes, and the clenching set of his jaw. “You were old enough to know better.”  
  
“We’re always old enough to know better,” Harry replies, and they both know he’s not just talking about school.  
  
“So we are.” There’s a pause. “I hate this,” whines Draco, and if Harry doesn’t know better, he’d say Draco is about to stamp his foot.  
  
“Define this,” Harry wonders, and rubs at the frown he knows is forming on his forehead, brushing the fringe from his eyes.  
  
“This,” Draco says, a little tart displeasure in his voice, and gestures expansively. He could be referring to the rain, to the storm, to the streetlamp across the way. Harry figures it’s probably the war, and doesn’t press.  
  
They sit in silence for a time.  
  
“I don’t feel anything, anymore.” Harry lifts his gaze from the muddy grass beneath his feet, and stares into the infinite distance. He chuckles, and it sounds a little broken, even to him. But then, he knows just how broken he is.  
  
“Not even hate?”  
  
Harry just keeps on staring. “Not even hate,” he replies, as if someone else was saying the words.  
  
“How convenient for you. You should be a Death Eater. We’re all comfortably numb – no pity, no compassion, no conscience.”  
  
“Are you really that way?” Harry asks, and looks over at him.  
  
Draco’s lips compress into a thin smile. “I’ve told myself I am so many times that I doubt it matters.  
  
“Dumbledore believed in you,” breathes Harry.  
  
“Look what happened to him,” opines Draco. “No. Besides, what would you have me do?”  
  
“You could always join our side.”  
  
“After everything I’ve done?” Draco laughs. “Don’t insult my intelligence, Potter. That’d be about as sensible as…well, as you becoming one of us.”  
  
Harry won’t let it go, but then he is stubborn, and he needs to believe in such things as redemption. “People have swapped sides before-”  
  
“Yes, and ended up very very dead,” Draco reminds him. “I’m not exactly suicidal. Not exactly,” he breathes, but there’s a ragged edge to it as he runs his fingers through his hair.  
  
“Better choose your own fate and know what’s coming then hang around for Voldemort to off you,” Harry snaps, colouring despite himself, and takes a few moments to calm himself.  
  
“Out of the two of us, who is still loyal to the memory of a dead man? I hardly think you ever chose your own fate, Potter.”  
  
Harry flips him a two fingered salute, and rises from the bench. He’s cold and tired and should be wet, but isn’t, which somehow makes it all worse.  
  
He doesn’t say goodbye.


End file.
